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OTHER POEMS 


for 


MOTHERS' DAY 















































MAY -4 1923 



ifinnmth 

• 

In ancient days the spirit and virtues of the 
people were voiced in ballad and folk song by an 
inspired minstrelsy. The mantle of this honor¬ 
able guild has fallen, in these modern days, on 
the few gifted writers who can, in quaint and 
pointed verse, interpret the heart throbs of the 
common people, whom, Abraham Lincoln said, 
God loves best because he made so many of them. 
The gift of interpretation , a divine one, endows 
one modest Nebraska writer of verse, whose offer¬ 
ing is contained in this beautiful book, dedicated 
to the Mothers of the land, and placed on sale 
on the day devoted to their enshrinement, in 
popular reverence. There are vagrant poems 
which stir the heart and the imagination, voicing 
all our yearnings, and all of our emotions and the 
things of love that are inspired by Mother. There 
are other poems that breathe of courage, and in¬ 
spiration, and the nobler things of life—as a lamp 
set at our feet to guide our way. The heart and 
mind labor involved in the birth of these poems is 
a labor of love in the largest sense—and being 
born of quiet genius will become a part of the 
warp and woof of the fabric of the folk songs 
which show the true greatness of a people. 

John H. Kearnes. 










E* 


•0 


When Garden Flowers Bloom 

ALWAYS think of mother 
When garden flowers bloom 
And smile at one another, 

And shed their sweet perfume. 

It seems her hand has touched them, 
No matter where they grow, 

It seems her eyes have watched them, 
As in the long ago. 

It seems her lips have kissed them, 
And on their beauty smiled, 

It seems she has caressed them, 

The flowers undefiled. 

The balsam and verbenia 
In colors bright and gay, 

The hollyhock and zinnia, 

All in their glad array; 

Seem gathered there together, 

Her praise aloud to sing 
Until they droop and wither— 

Their lives an offering— 

The lily of the valley, 

The gladioli, too, 

The faintly scented dahlia, 

The larkspur pink and blue, 

Seem silently assembled 
In rows precise and quaint, 

To marvel at her goodness; 

Sweet mother, gentle saint. 

And so I think of mother, 

When garden flowers grow 
And smile at one another, 

Because she loved them so. 


»0 



0" m . 

Page Four 





She Was My Mother 

HlljEAR LITTLE lady in lavender dress, 
f^Pp Spirit of smiling loveliness; 

Snow-white hair, her well-earned crown, 
White where once was golden brown, 

Deep blue eyes, whose glances told 
Of tender love that ne’er grows old. 

Soft smooth cheeks, with a rose tint brushed, 
Sweet kind lips — that have long been hushed — 
Oh, there never could be such another 
Dear little lady — she was my mother. 

Dear little lady in lavender gowned, 

Hers a dignity most profound, 

Hers a gentle and kindly mien, 

Hers the poise of a gracious queen, 

Hers a touch that soothed the pain, 

Lifting the bowed head up again, 

Hers an arm that could reach and bring 
Storm tossed ones to the fold again. 

Oh, there never could be such another 
Dear little lady — she was my mother. 

Dear little lady, I see her tonight, 

Emblem of all that’s good and right, 

Worthy example of what should be, 

Angel of love and purity, 

Kind and gentle, yet firm and strong; 

She made of discord the sweetest song. 

Into a day made dark with woe 

She brought the sun, tho ’ the clouds hung low. 

Oh, there never could be such another 
Dear little lady — she was my mother. 


Page 


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E 1 


It’s Springtime in Nebraska 

T’S SPRINGTIME in Nebraska, 
The woods are smelling sweet, 
Like wondrous velvet carpets 
Are the fields of growing wheat, 
The cherry buds are bursting 
And there ’s sunshine everywhere; 

It’s springtime in Nebraska— 

And you’re not here. 

It’s springtime in Nebraska, 

The birds are nesting now, 

The little creeks and rivers 
Are rippling as they flow. 

The music of the songsters 
Denotes their joyous cheer; 

It’s springtime in Nebraska— 

And you ’re not here. 

It’s springtime in Nebraska, 

And dandelions bold 
Bespeck the lawn and wayside 
With bloom of yellow gold. 

The scent of leaf and flower 
Makes sweet the atmosphere; 

It’s springtime in Nebraska— 

And you’re not here. 

It’s springtime in Nebraska, 

The prairie grasses nod, 

And daisies spring in silence 
From out the weedy sod, 

And meadow lark’s sweet warble 
Like bugle note calls clear; 

It’s springtime in Nebraska— 

And you’re not here. 


. .Mil.1111II11II11II11111111II [■] 

Page Six 





Mother Patching 

OTHER sits beside the window 
Fixing up the children’s clothes, 
Mending overalls and dresses, 
Darning holes in stocking toes, 
Pressing here a little wrinkle, 

Patching there a little tear, 

Sewing up each rended garment 
For the boy and girl to wear. 

Mother knows that they are near her, 
Knows that every care or pain 
She can soothe in just a moment, 

Making smiles come back again. 

So she does not heed the patter 
Of their feet upon the floor, 

Does not hear their childish clatter, 

For she thinks of something more. 

She is thinking, as she patches, 

Of the dreaded future day 
When the boy she loves and watches 
Will be gone from her away; 

When the girl she guards and blesses 
Will have met the stress of life, 

Far from mother’s fond caresses, 

In the world’s unfeeling strife. 

So with every little button 
That she fastens on the clothes, 

There’s a thought most sad and tender, 
And a little prayer that goes 
To the God of good, who’s near her, 

To the king of love and joy, 

Asking that He guide and cheer her 
As she rears her girl and boy. 



.. -0 

Page Seven 



0 ' 


'0 


Little Old Lady in a Railway Station 

I IITTLE old lady in bonnet and shawl, 

I Scared at the noise and the jostle and all; 

Don’t look so anxious, for they ’ll let you know, 
They’ll call your train when the time comes to go. 

They ’ll help you on with your bundles and grips, 

Bird cage and bandbox and basket of slips, 

They ’ll help you find a good comfortable seat; 

Little old lady so timid and sweet. 

Little old lady, don’t worry and fret 
Over the things you fear you ’ll forget, 

Hold to your purse and your handkerchief white, 

Don’t lose your ticket and you’ll be alright. 

Little old lady your train will soon come 

And take you to son’s or to dear daughter’s home; 

There you’ll be met with a joyous ado, 

There they are anxiously waiting for you. 

Little old lady, your hands folded there 
Speak of long service for those you hold dear, 

Speak of a life full of labor and love 
Spurred by a worship that comes from above. 

Little old lady, your eyes dimmed with age 
Seem to look searchingly over life’s page, 

Seem to look back to the long, long ago, 

To those you have chided, yet comforted too. 

Little old lady, your lips drawn and thin 
Speak of long hours of anguish and pain, 

Speak of sweet smiles in a youth’s golden time, 

Speak of love’s sacrifice, sweetly sublime. 

Little old lady, your train’s coming fast; 

Soon you’ll be borne to that heavenly rest, 

Soon you’ll clasp hands with the ones you loved so, 

For they are anxiously waiting for you. 


0 ... 

Page Eight 


■0 



Mother I’ve Missed You 


'E 


HUU!OTHER I’ve missed you so since you’ve been gone, 

My soul has yearned for those dear smiles of thine, 
I’ve listened for the echo of your song 
To soothe my heart ache with its notes sublime. 


My arms have ached to feel your kind embrace, 
Thro ’ silent hours of night I’ve sobbed for thee, 
I’ve hungered for the sight of your sweet face, 
And mourned that you may not come back to me, 


Mother, I’ve missed the pressure of your hand, 

I’ve longed to whisper low into your ear 
The words that only you could understand; 

I’ve missed you, oh I’ve missed you mother dear. 


And yet, I would not call you back again; 

Back where cold winds could chill your velvet cheek, 
Back where life’s cruel storms of wind and rain 
Against your tender heart, my dear, could beat. 


I would not call you back again, my dear, 

Lest a stray cloud should cross your path—but oh, 
Life is so empty, and so void of cheer 
Since you are gone—Mother I miss you so. 


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Page Nine 


... g 




E 


The Mother and the Rose 

AID TIIE rose to the mother pure and good: 
“Why do you come here every day? 

Why do you watch with tenderest care ■ 
My petals turn to the sun’s bright ray? 
Why do you press a fervent kiss 
On my very heart, oh lady fair ? 

Why do you weep ? Pray tell me this, 

Why do you stand in silence here? 

Why do you clasp those hands and sigh? 

They are as white as the lily there — 

Why on your cheek a tear, oh why? 

Have you more grief than heart can bear?” 

Said the lady fair to the rose so red, 

“Oft’ in the golden past, sweet flower, 

My babe and I to this garden fled 
From earthly scenes, for a heavenly hour. 

One day he pressed a baby kiss 

On a tender rose bud, young and pink, 

And looking up in childish bliss 
Said softly, ‘I’ll pick dis, I fink.’ 

Then I made answer: ‘Wait, my child, 

Wait ’till the dainty leaves unfold, 

And when their beauty on us smiles 
The flower is yours, to have and hold. ’ ’ ’ 

“As the rose bud grew and its fragrance shed 
Throughout the garden old and grand, 

I came each day with the little lad, 

My whole life held in his tiny hand. 

We watched together every day; 

‘It, is my rose,’ he said in glee, 
l ‘You are my flower,’ I answered back, 

And drew him closer then to me. 

But long before his rose burst forth 
My little flower had bloomed in heaven; 
jj Angels had taken him from earth 

\ And his sweet rose to me had given.” 

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Page Ten 



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■0 


□ ' 


It Was You 

S BEAUTIFUL mother once held in her arms 
A delicate baby so tender and sweet; 

The song that she sung, blessed with lullaby’s charms, 
Enraptured her soul with a joy all complete. 

Fond dreams filled her soul as she looked at the child, 

The prayer that went up was an infinite plea 
That God in his love and compassion so mild 
Would make of her babe what he willed it to be. 

That mother so fair was your mother, my boy, 

The baby she held in her dear arms was you, 

Her life’s inspiration, her comiort, her joy— 

But tell me I pray, have her dreams come true ? 

That kind, patient mother, you cannot forget, 

She loved you and watched you and cherished you so. 

How often with tear drops her dear eyes were wet, 

As she rocked a sick babe — and that baby was you. 

That beautiful mother, to you she was given; 

Those sweet words of love that she whispered so low 
Merged into a dream that was sent her from heaven— 
But tell me my boy, has the dream come true ? 


Mother 

HERE’S a word known as faith and one as love, 
And hope is a word oft’ repeated, 

They all bring a tho’t of the things above; 

As we hear them our hearts are elated. 

But there is a word that embodies them all, 

Faith, love, and sweet hope put together, 

The world and her sages it seems to enthrall; 

It’s the sacred, the wonderword “Mother”. 



». 0 

Page Eleven 






01111 


E 


The Picture 



HERE’S a picture, ahangin’ in our front room, 

Of two old graves with their head stones bare, 

An’ just behind, like a church yard’s tomb, 

Stands an empty cottage — they once lived there— 


An’ under the picture there’s writ, I mind, 
’Bout the young folks all to the city goin’, 
An’ the old folks bein’ left behind 
In the two graves there in the yard alone. 


I can see the roses aclimbin’ ’round, 

An’ ’most forget that the dead lie there, 

For they nearly cover each little mound, 

With their undergrowth and their foliage rare. 

Sometimes I sit there by the hour 
An’ count the swallows aflyin’ round, 

An’ ’most reach out to cull a flower 
Agrowin’ there on the pictured ground. 

Oh, it looks so quiet an’ restful there, 

An’ I’m so tired all the time 

That I almost wish I was lyin’ there 

’Neath the undergrowth and the columbine. 


But land, when the girls come runnin’ in 
I most forget I w r as ever sad; 

An’ the boys from the cornfield back again 
Make the whole house ring with their songs so glad. 


An’ when our boy Tim, like his pa, you know, 
Puts his arm around me an’ just says, “marm,” 
It makes me ’shamed I was ever blue, 

Or tired o’ life on the litle farm. 


Page Twelve 


S« 






An’ next time I look at the picture there, 
Ahangin’ yonder in our front room, 

I scarcely glance at the headstones bare, 
Or see the graves in their silent gloom. 

Instead, I look at the cottage gray, 

An ’ seem to think I have gone inside; 

I hear the voices of children gay, 

The father’s joy and the mother’s pride. 

1 see a fire in the hearthstone glow, 

1 hear sweet songs in the little home, 

An’ I am glad I have learned to know 
The picture hangin’ in our front room. 


Oh, Little Mother 

LITTLE mother, don’t you know 
'lljP That tho’ you’re often tired, 

A great big world depends on you 
By you we’re all inspired 
To do the things that come our way, 

To meet life’s daily bothers, 

And what we do and what we say 
Lies largely with our mothers. 

Why, don’t you know that every day 
As through your tasks you’re going 
A million prayers are said for you ? 

A million hearts are growing 
More kindly for the love of you, 

Better, for knowing ’bout you; 

So little mother don’t be blue, 

We couldn’t do without you. 





HI 


Ma Fed Im 

TRAMP came up to our back door, 

An’ pa spoke to him before 
Ma could get there, an ’ he said 
‘ ‘ So you say you want some bread, 
j Seems to me that such as you 

Could find somethin’ more to do 
Than jest beg, an’ tramp around. 

Lots o’ good jobs to be found”— 

§ An’ pa said t’ ’im. 

“We’ve no time my lad, today, 

Fer to entertain that way, 

| Ma an’ I are gettin’ old, 

An’ we ain’t jest made o’ gold, 

An’ if we give our bread away 
We’ll be tramps ourselves some day.” 

’N’en pa winked, an’ said, “we’re not 
Feedin’ tramps today”—that’s what 
§ Pa said t’ ’im. 

Ma jest wouldn’t hear no more, 

Rushed right over to the door 

An’ said, “oh shaw, it ain’t no bother, 

Listen dad, he’s got a mother, 

An’ when I’m feedin’ him it seems 
I’m abringin’ true her dreams 
Of his future happiness. 

We won’t miss this grub, I guess”— 

An’ ma fed ’im. 

After he had gone away 
Ma kept thinkin’ all that day, 

’N’en she said, “he sure was dirty, 

But some mother thought him purty 
When he was a little kid 
In his cradle, ’course she did; 

Tramps have mothers, same as we ’ ’— 

An’ maybe that’s the reason why 
Ma fed ’im. 

□ '.....minimum.mmmmmmmm.•mm.mmmmmmmiitiiHimmin 

Page Fourteen 







itimimp) 


She said, “when folks ask bread o’ you 
There’s just one thing, boys, to do, 

Feed ’em — ’t aint fer you to know 
What has bro’t ’em to their woe. 

If they’re hungry, that’s enough, 

Tho’ they’re poorly clad an’ gruff, 

It’s fer you to lend a hand 

An’ help ’em boys — you understand”— 

Yes, ma fed ’im. 


If You Should Come 

(dS HOTIIER, if you should come to me tonight, 

In the soft glow and shades of evening light, 
Out of that mystic region of the blest, 

All pale and beautiful, in white robe dressed. 



1 would not tell you of the tears, 

Of the dull heart aches, of the empty years, 
Of the soul-yearning since you went away; 
Or the long nights that follow each dark day. 


I would not tell you that the winds moan low 
Thro’ the black night, as if to call for you, 

I would not tell you that the robin’s song 
Seems but a requiem since you are gone. 


I’d only lay my head upon your breast— 

As "when a child I cuddled down to rest— 

And into your dear hand my hand would creep, 
And as my head fell lower I would weep. 


f7| MmiiinnniiiHiiiimmniiniiiiiiiiniiminniiiiiinMiimnmiiiHMiinmiinminiinmnnnnnm«ninmiimiinniiiinmnmii[71 

Page Fifteen 





S' 


E 


The Empty House 

|*§||HE HOUSE seems empty now since she is gone, 
|H|j But flowers that were bro’t her yesterday 
Still lend their fragrance to the little room 
In lingering with us another day. 

There in the corner lay the books she read, 

This is the easy chair she liked so well; 

The gold fish and canary that she fed 
Are here, but ah, the house is empty still. 

This isi the window where she sat so long 
And prayed and waited for the spring to come, 

That she once more might hear the robins ’ song— 

An omen that the flowers soon would bloom— 

And yonder stands the cot on which she lay, 

Here is a dainty dress she once had on, 

There is the harp on which she used to play, 

But ah, the house is empty since she’s gone. 

And all around, it seems that I can hear 
The echo of the songs she used to sing, 

Her voice in sweet communion and in prayer, 

As evening hovered earth with starry wing. 

I almost hear her step upon the floor, 

For she was with me only yesterday; 

Mother, come back, my heart is sad and sore, 

Yes, I am lonely since you went away. 


EQiiimmmiiiiHiillliiiiiiiimimil..............(■cum.■■■[■] 

Page Sixteen 






S' 


■E 


Her Picture 



’NT SHE wonderful ? See the dear face 
In the old-fashioned picture that hangs in its place. 
Look at the lips, they are rounded and sweet, 

With tint of the roses that brush her soft cheek. 


Isn’t she wonderful ? Look at the hair 

Pushed from her forehead with neatness and care, 

Combed in the style of a princess or queen, 

In its waving a glint of spun gold may be seen. 


Is ’nt she wonderful ? White throat that seems 
To swell as with song, while she peacefully dreams 
There in the picture, her head proudly bent 
As she gazes upon me with kindly intent. 


Isn’t she wonderful? Blue eyes that smile 
Wistfully out from the frame on the wall; 
Almost I hear her in whispers that ring 
Of youth passed away to come never again. 


Oh, what a picture! How wondrous to know 
The beauty of mother’s face long, long ago. 
What a rich heritage mine, to enjoy 
Her presence altho’ she has long been away. 


Quiuniiiiiii.......mi.......limilllllimmmilll."E 

Page Seventeen 







Perhaps, Oh Flowers 

FLOWERS, blooming in the garden there, 

With permeating sweetness rich and rare, 

How can you bloom when her dear lips are still ? 
How can your brightness all the garden fill? 

How can you flaunt your gaudy rainment forth 
And throw sweet kisses to a wondering earth? 

How can you beam, and proudly over all 
Smile, when she sleeps and answers not your call ? 

Ah rose, whose petals soft are but a part 
Of the sweet beauty bursting from your heart, 

Do you not feel a tinge of bitter pain 
When you are told that she ’ll not come again ? 

And you, ah tender, perfect rosemary, 

Scattering perfume all along the way; 

Have you not heard that on a summer night 
She joined an angel band and took her flight ? 

Sweet lily, you are white and pure like snow. 

Have you not felt her tender love for you? 

How can you then, in peace, bloom calmly'on 
Here in the garden, when you know she’s gone? 



0 -. 

Page Eighteen 





< 0 ' 


•0 


Ah, flowers, that she’s tended with such care, 
’Twere best I judge you not than be unfair; 
Perhaps your flower-eyes more clearly see 
Than mortal eyes, that have been giv’n to me. 

Perhaps what seems to me your unconcern 
Is just the way of flowers when they mourn; 

Or maybe when you lift your heads so high, 
You see her angel spirit in the sky. 

And when you fling your gorgeous colors on, 

Who knows but what ’tis then she comes along 
And, with a golden scepter in her hand, 

Fondles you, flowers, perhaps you understand. 

And maybe the soft petal’s crimson blush 
Is caus'ed by an unaccustomed hush 
That settles o ’er the garden when she stoops 
To kiss some lovelorn blossom e’er it droops. 

Yes, maybe her sweet spirit all serene, 

Comes to the garden, just by flowers seen, 

And in the breeze that makes you dance and play 
You feel the breath that bore her soul away. 


0 .......miiimmminnp^. 

Page Nineteen 





Your Lullabies 


0- 


□ 



Did you not feel that angels in the skies 
Were list’ning to the accents sweet and low? 


And mother, when you hushed the baby’s cries 
In the still night, with hymns of sweet content, 
Oh mother darling, could you realize 
How far the echoes of your music went? 

Adown the ages they have travelled far, 

Those notes that trembled on your weary lips; 
Echoing thro’ the centuries they are, 

Calming lost mariners in their sinking ships, 


Soothing the soldier as he bleeds and dies, 
Ringing once more in his dull memory, 
Sounding above the shrapnel as it flies; 
Louder your croon than war’s artillery. 


They tell me that in heaven’s choir above, 

The sweetest anthems that the angels sing 
Are tones snatched from your lullabies of love 
And heralded as music for the King. 


□....HU........... 

Page Twenty 







0 < 


■E 


Because of Her 



ECAUSE she smiled, the world was brighter far 
Than heaven lit by shining sun or star; 

The earth took on a vastly different mien, 
And life was sweeter than it yet had been. 


Because she spoke, a tender thought was stirred 
Deep in the heart of every one that heard, 

And music sweet seemed echoing o ’er and o ’er, 

E ’en when her voice was heard on earth no more. 


Because she lived, the earth was richly blest, 
Hearts sad and tired were lullabied to rest, 
Beauty was seen in smallest bud and flower, 

And the whole world seemed glad because of her. 


Because she died, there sprung a hope eternal 
In the poor lives once lifted by her hand, 

And visions came of angel bands supernal 
Guided by her on heaven’s golden strand. 


0- 


.—0 

Page Twenty-One 




Qitinmii 


iHiareUatmiua Poems 


It Is God 

TINY star in the evening light, 

A wild bird making its homeward flight, 
A firefly darting through the trees, 

A scent of flowers, a gentle breeze, 

And woodland paths by children trod; 

But back of all is God, is God. 



A strength to wipe away the tears, 

A hope that banishes all fears, 

A faith to lift life’s broken chain 
And weave the strands all back again, 
Meekness to bow and kiss the rod; 
But back of all is God, is God. 


The sweet content of nestlings wild, 

A mother’s worship of her child. 

A humble cot where love abides, 

And joy and gladness sweet betides. 

Do you ever think, as through life you plod, 
That back of all is God, is God ? 




Page Twenty-Two 


| 11|HI .iitiiiiiiiiiiiiimimiiiiin.......1111...| 





3 '.... 


New Year Resolutions 

’M GOING to laugh and smile today, 
For blessings that have come my way 
The past year. 

And I am going to try and see 
That other folks are glad and gay 
And full of cheer. 

I’m going to try and bring a smile 
To someone sorrowing the while 
I laugh. 

I’ll try and make their poor hearts feel 
That sighs and longings are not real; 

Are only chaff. 

I ’ll try each day to make them see 
The beauty all along their way, 

And then— 

I may forget my own dark hours, 

OVIay gain a strength from unseen powers— 
And hope again. 


[■Iinmiiimininniiiimimiummm imuimi .iiiiiuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimii .... n 1111 ■ ■ 11 ■ i ■ ■ i ■ i ■ 111 • 11 • ■ i ■ . mhiQ 

Page Twenty-Three 








Night on the Prairie 

flllEN the stars come out at night, 

Air all cool and sky all white, 
Moon agleaming up above, 

Night owls crooning songs of love, 
Breezes rustling o’er the plains, 

Crickets chirping joyful strains, 

Coyotes howling over there 
In the canyon’s stillness, where 
Sandhills rise like towers of old, 

With their wealth of yellow gold 
Sand, that comes a’sifting down, 

Borne by hot winds all around, 

On the prairie. 


When the sage bush dense and green, 
That the night wind seems to preen, 
Makes a million little tents 
Rise like dark veiled monuments 
Casting shadows on the ground 
With a mournfulness profound— 
They bespeak the days to come, 
Days of loneliness and gloom— 

And a dread, like winter’s chill, 
Comes the summer warmth to kill, 
On the prairie. 


Cactus lifting up its head 
From a soft and grassy bed, 
Stretching arms to heaven’s blue, 
Rev’ling in the liquid dew, 

Insects in one chorus grand 
Singing of the sun and sand, 
Singing of the hot wind’s breath, 
Singing of a desert death; 

Then, in chanting harmony, 
Singing of their life so free, 
Singing of the winds at play, 
Singing of the night’s array, 


mi 

Page Twenty-four 





Of a starry canopy j 

Jeweled by the milky way; 

Singing of the flowers asleep, \ 

Of the turtle doves that weep | 

On the prairie. 

Yonder on the broad plateau, 

Yonder where the thistles grow, 

Stands, what seems in night’s strange thrill 
Like a city cold and still— 

In whose dark and dismal tower j 

Long since chimed the midnight hour— 

Countless houses built of clay, 

Like the Arab’s tents are they. 

’Neath the star draped firmament 

They bespeak a race content | 

With their castles in the clay; 

Here in simple harmony 
Ground-dog, owl and serpent vile 
Live and love and weep and smile, 

On the prairie. j 

Oh, the stillness; oh, the peace, 

Rapture of a soul’s release, 

As the soft winds seem to wake 
And a full, deep breath to take— 

Like a sleeping child disturbed, 

Slumbers on, all unperturbed— | 

Night like this must mean for me i 

Part of my eternity, 

Part of things I never knew, \ 

Worlds that I must travel through = 

E ’er I reach the one great goal, | 

E ’er I anchor heart and soul 
In the void of that beyond, 

In that strange and unknown land 

Where the soul is said to rest | 

’Mong the spirits of the blest. 

Night like this can only be § 

Part of that eternity, 

On the prairie. 

....iimitiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.iiiiiiiiiiiniiniiiiiiiiiiiinmniiiiiuiniiiiiiniimiiimmimmiilTI 

Page Twenty-five 





Qini until in iiiiiimmiiiiiii.. m inn in...illinium...Minn.... 11 linin' | 7 | 


A Song of Nebraska 

MAY not sing of mountains, that lift their snowy heads 
To touch Nebraska’s ever changing sky, 

Or white and frothy sea foam tossed from ocean beds 
Like wilted flowers idly thrown away. 

But I can sing of sand hills that flank the prairie land— 

Gold brown they are, and marked with sage bush green— 

And I can sing of visions I’ve caught in mirage grand, 
Reflected from a river’s sparkling sheen. 

I may not sing of castles far famed in history’s lore, 

With gardens planned long centuries ago, 

But I can sing of bungalows and cottages galore 
That sprung from sod built houses crude and low. 

And I can sing of mallards and cadwells soaring high. 

And sportsmen hunting in the flat lagoons, 

The bob-o-link and cat bird, the rain crow’s piercing cry. 

And meadow larks that trill their prairie tunes. 

And I can sing of wheat fields with shocks of bronzine hue, 
Like beaded mantle, by some reaper flung 
Across the golden stubble, to wait ’till thrasher crew 
Unravels what the shocker’s hand has done. 

And I can sing of cornfields, that once were grassy plain, 

Green stalks that send out hope with every blade; 

Of golden tassels waving o ’er miles of ripening grain, 

And hay lands where the cycle’s song is heard. 

And I can sing of beauty in broad alfalfa fields, 

Blue green made velvety by unseen powers; 

Wonderful, dense the prospect, a harvest rich it yields, 

And revels in the perfume of its flowers. 


-0 



□.-... 

Page Twenty-six 






S ' 


■0 


And I can sing of orchards that fringe the meadow lands, 

And shade trees too, majestically tall, 

The pine tree and box elder, the cottonwood that stands 
Towering gloriously over all. 

And I can sing of stubble fields, where black birds sally forth 
In flocks so dense that as they hurry by 

Their wings make strange, wild music, not born of heaven or 
earth, 

But muffled in a dirge-like melody. 

I may not sing of poppys, like those on Flanders’ fields, 

Nor shamrock green, like that of Emerald Isle, 

But I can sing of leafage, that in its folds conceals 
Pale wild flowers fostered by an angel’s smile. 

And I can sing of bright flowers with wild rose blooming near, 
Of goldenrod — Nebraska’s very own,— 

Of little wild verhenia, like grey eyes soft and clear, 

And daisies white, with hearts of yellow down. 

And I can sing of sunsets in fair Nebraska’s skies, 

With golden background flecked by colors rare, 

And all the tints of summer and shades of paradise 
Veiling the sun and softening its glare. 

And little cloudlets flitting, rose tinted pearls they are, 
Scattered across a sky of purple blue, 

And merging into sunset they fling back one lone star 
And softly mingle with the summer’s dew. 

And I can sing of sunshine, not endless, but as bright 
As shines upon the tropic fields and flowers, 

Of firefly and moon beam and still cool summer night 
Ruled by the god of Beauty’s wondrous powers. 

And I can sing of south winds that burn with stinging breath 
All lives that in their path should chance to stray, 

Hot winds that parch and wither, and burn to very death 
Vast fields of fruitage lying in their way. 


pn .. 


..nniiniinnniuinnniiiniiimnminmminim«MinmniininnuuunnmmmnMmmn f«7 

Page Twenty-seven 





□«»»•»•......-. to 

I And I can sing of west winds that come at even’ tide 
| To cool the fever of a tired day, 

§ And whisper to the violets of elfin fairy bride, 

\ Or kiss the lilacs blooming ’long the way. 


And I can sing of winter, in old Nebraska state, 

White winter with her snow banks drifted high 
Along the hedge and roadside, to quietly await 
Spring suns that come to carry them away. 

Ah, I could sing forever of old Nebraska state, 

Her noble men, who helped to further on 

The work that made her wondrous, and beautiful, and great; 
But even then my song would be half sung. 


On Christmas Eve 

WO WEE stockings hanging there, 
Just below the open stair, 

And beside them, fair to see, 

Is a wondrous Christmas tree. 

In the nursery overhead, 

Fast asleep in dainty bed, 

Two wee youngsters; and the while 
Angels watch — and smile, and smile. 

Two small stockings, old and torn, 
In a room of gladness shorn, 

No bright, sparkling Christmas tree, 
Only gnawing poverty. 

Two wee youngsters in their bed 
Sadly shiver, side by side, 

And, as restlessly they sleep, 

Angels watch—and weep, and weep. 



[■Jiiiiimiimmttmi.....■ iiniiiiiMmmmtititiiitiiiimiitiiMiiiifMiiQ 

Page Ticenty-eight 




Christmas 




EAR THE ringing and the singing 
Of the merry Christmas bells, 

As they jingle with a tingle 
That all other sound excels. 

Hear the echoes sweet rebounding, 

As the music clearly sounding, 

Sends a thrill through the still night air. 


Hear the loud bells ring. 

There is music on the wing, 

They are swaying, they are playing, 
In the high church tower, 

And they seem to feel 
With each silvery peal, 

All the sweetness and completeness 
Of their magic power. 


5 


Hear the swinging and the ringing 
Of the merry Christmas bells, 

Oh, the sadness and the gladness 
That their harmony foretells. 

They are ringing, singing, swinging, 
But their echoes still are clinging 
To a Christmas of long ago. 


When the joy bells rang, 

Oh how tunefully they sang, 

And the angels up in heaven 
Joined the anthems sweet; 

For a king was born 
On that Christmas morn, 

And the Mother Mary watched him 
With a joy complete. 


llj,'",,,, ................................."....El 

Page Twenty-nine 






Qimimmmmmimmm.mi...mum.mm.ninim.. 


To An Easter Lily 



H LILY, flower of Easter tide 
And sign of purity, 

Your waxen petals open wide 
And almost speak to me. 


You seem to speak of hearts revived, 

Of resurrected hope, 

You breathe the blessings you’ve received, 
To long lost souls that grope. 


Your fragrant incense wafted forth, 
A hint of spring-time brings, 

And whispers of a joyful earth 
When Easter Anthem rings. 


Your leaves, like slender finger tips 
Point upward to the sky, 

And as I press you to my lips 
I almost learn the why 


Of new-born hope and happiness 
Beyond the cross of gloom, 

And see the stone rolled far away 
From sorrow’s darkened tomb. 


How can I help but love you then 
Sweet symbol of re-birth? 

You kindle in the hearts of men 
New hope, new love, and truth. 


»Gt 


B....... 

Paye Thirty 





0 * 


□ 


Marbles 

’H, THE boys are playing marbles 
In the lot across the way, 

And I know that winter’s over 
And spring is here to stay. 

I can hear the click of glassies, 
Nigger-heads and aggies round. 

And it’s then I know for certain 
That the frost has left the ground. 

You may talk of other omens 
Of a warm and early spring, 

Of Robin red-breast coming, 

These signs to chirp and sing; 

But no sign of spring is surer, 

I care not what you say, 

Than the boys aplaying marbles 
In the lot across the way. 

There’s a breath o’spring’s own sweetness 
In the dust their capers fling, 

As with crooked stick or jack-knife 
They mark the sacred ring; 

Then from bended thumb and finger 
The marbles shoot away, 

And winter’s chill’s forgotten 
In the rapture of their play. 

Ah, those grimy little fingers, 

And those dusty trouser knees, 

In my mind a sweet tho’t lingers 
Of their happy, care-free ways; 

And when spring’s announced in heaven, 
I’ll be watching every day 
For the boys aplaying marbles, 

In the lot across the way. 






Page Tliirty-one 



Plii n ii 111 nm i n ii n ......... 


Autumn 

UlTU'MN divine! Sweet autumn brown and gold, 
What artist hand can paint thy colors best ? 
What brush portray thy beauties manifold, 

Or tint the glory of thy favorite crest ? 

And who may understand the sun’s bright ray 
That shines reflective on the slanting hill, 

Or glints through foliage colorful and gay 
Like day stars lent from skies all blue and still ? 

And who may know the leaves’ strange language, as 
All brown and gold and green and deeply red, 

They rustle through the crisp and wilted grass 
To meet the frost nipped flowers drooped and dead? 

Autumn divine, with deepest crimson brake, 

The mysteries of thy days may ne’er be known; 

We only read the promise that you make 
Of summers yet to come when you are gone. 

We plainly see that in the after glow 
Of flower life is beauty most serene, 

And in the leaves of autumn learn to know 
A beauty rarer than the spring’s bright green. 

We learn that slimmer flowers are not more fair— 
Although with hope they fill us every one— 

Than mellowed autumn leaves so richly rare, 

That point to peace, and guerdons fairly won. 

And thus we grasp a hope and are content, 

Feeling that earth may be more beautiful 
In the calm autumn of a life well spent 
Than in youth’s flaming summer, after all. 



EbiHMimiimiMiiiiiiiiiiiiii 

Page Thirty-two 





nmnunmnniimmimniniHnnHmimiimimimmiimmmuiimiMMinMnufTl 




A Business Creed 



BELIEVE in the stuff I am handing out, 

In the business I’m building, too, 

I believe that we get what we want, no doubt, 
If we work with a courage true. 


I believe in the pleasure my job can give, 

In the work that I do today, 

I believe that to strive is to truly live 
With a hope of the bye and bye. 

I believe that to work, and not to weep, 

Is the role that the brave should play, 

We should keep awake tho’ we long to sleep; 
If our duty points that way. 

I believe from the depths of my very soul, 
That somewhere, for everyone, 

There’s a job that will bring him to the goal 
If he bravely pushes on. 

I believe that no one is down and out, 

Until deep in his heart he feels 
That the race is lost, and sinks in doubt 
As his own sad fate he seals. 

I believe that the road was never trod 
That may not be trod again; 

I believe in a fellowship with God, 

And the brotherhood of man. 








S' 


November Stars 

Ijgfj HAVE inklings that the twinklings 
111 Of November’s stars so bright, 

As they glimmer, blink and shimmer 
Through the cool autumnal night, 

Hint not only of the laughter 
Heard in cloud land overhead; 

But bespeak a chill hereafter, 

When the last fall leaf is dead. 

Ah, their winkings and their blinkings 
May not all be signs of joy, 

Tho’ they gleam on and they beam on 
From their places in the sky. 

Well they know of heavens clouded 
By a winter’s veil of snow, 

Clothed in icy mists, and shrouded 
In chill mystery and woe. 

There’s a sadness with the gladness 
Of the chill November stars, 

As their bright lights, as their white lights 
Penetrate this world of ours; 

For while sparkling at earth’s glory 
From their pedestals on high, 

They reflect an untold story 
Of the hearts that break and die. 


GQiiimiiiiiiiiimiimiiiiiiiniimmiHiiiMimi.........niiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnniiiiiiiiiiiininn[T| 

Page Thirty-four 





iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiniiiiiiiuMiniiiinimiiiiiniiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniininHminiiiiimniiiiimnmiimiiiimnniifTl 


An August Afternoon 

THE lazy, hazy hours 
Of an August afternoon ; 

When we breathe the scent of flowers, 
Summer flowers in full bloom, 

When we nid, and nod and slumber, 

’Neath a big tree’s spreading shade, 
Wishing that the day might linger 
And the blossoms never fade. 

Oh, the sleepy, creepy hours 
Of an August afternoon, 

When the insects in the meadow, 

And the birds are all in tune, 

When the sunshine and the shadow 
Seem to merge into a song, 

And we nid, and nod and slumber, 

As the hours slip along. 

Oh, the sorrow of tomorrow, 

And the sighs of yesterday 

Seem like mists all vague and fleeting 

And we linger carelessly. 

Oh, the brightness and the lightness 
Of the spell around us cast, 

Seem to thrill us and to still us, 

As we dream of days now past. 

Oh, the lazy, hazy hours 
Of an August afternoon; 

We are filled with Morpheus’ powers 
As we scent the flowers’ bloom, 

And we nid, and nod and slumber, 

‘Neath the trees so green and tall; 

Oh, an August afternoon’s the 
Sweetest afternoon of all. 



Page Thirty-five 




□' 


"“H 


On the Death of a Young Girl 

HE IS dead, and the voice that once warbled in song 
Is hushed now forever; 

She has passed from this earth to the white angel 
throng 

Where friends do not sever. 

Ah, the lips are so still, that were once like a rose, 

The white hands are waxen, 

And the pale brow is kissed in its gentle repose 
By hair soft and flaxen. 



So she sleeps, and her friends sadly weep o’er her bier, 
Their hearts torn with sorrow; 

She has passed from this life with no dreading or fear 
Of death or the ’morrow. 

In a grave over there ’neath a young willow tree 
They ’ll place her in sadness; 

Where the wild flowers bloom and the birds sing in glee 
With nature’s own gladness. 

Slumber on, thou art one of God’s favorite flowers 
Plucked out of his garden 

Before thou hadst lost the sweet joy of youth’s hours, 
Or thy heart could harden. 

Slumber on, ’tis no wonder thy sweet lips now smile; 

The angels have told thee 

That earth’s sin thy spirit can never defile, 

For God’s arms now hold thee. 


EDiiiimiiiimiiiimmiiimi.■■■■■■■ ...iminnn[7| 

Page Thirty-six 





Gifts 

THOUSAND insects in one chorus grand, 

A thousand daisies smiling up at me, 

A thousand gifts of nature are at hand, 

A thousand gems — and all of them are free. 

The flowers blooming by the broad highway, 

Wild rose, and butter-cup of tawny gold; 

Gifts for the lowly and the poor are they, 

Gifts that the humblest one may have and hold. 

And glimmering stars that bead a sea-blue sky, 

A moon that calmly rises from behind 
Pale, fluffy clouds that move on noiselessly 
To mingle with the brighter tints sublime. 

A thousand diamonds glittering in the sun, 

Rain drops that sparkle after summer showers, 

A thousand evening calls when day is done, 

A thousand echoes waked by unseen powers. 

And small white butterflies against the green 
Of the tall elms whose pointed finger tips 
Reach out to touch the summer skies and glean 
The kisses thrown from flowers’ scented lips. 

And fire flies darting out on night patrol, 

Each with a search-light sending out its ray 
’Mong shrubbery dense, and grasses damp and cool, 
Where moon vines grow and crickets chirp and play. 

Oh gifts divine, that have been sent to me, 

Oh, holy gifts from nature’s bosom riven, 

In their simplicity I plainly see 

God in his strength, and catch a glimpse of heaven. 



........ 0 

Page Thirty-seven 





I Did Not Tell Him 




•s 



DID not tell him that the words he spoke 
Brought joy unto my soul so weary grown, 

I did not tell him that the glad light broke 
When his kind look like sunshine o‘ er me shone, 


I did not tell him, tho’ he paused e’er passing on; 
I did not tell him, and he went his way alone. 


I did not tell him that the song he sung 
’Woke memories of golden days now past, 

I did not tell him when the song was done, 
That its sweet echoes in my heart would last, 

I did not tell him tho ’ he gave a pleading look 
And went his way alone, like one forsook. 


I did not tell him, and his hopes, his fears, 

His aims, lay smouldering in a timid soul, 
Thirsting for sympathy through weary years, 
Tremblingly reaching forth to touch the goal, 
Silently pleading for a smile or kindly word; 

I did not tell him, and he thought his song unheard. 


Oh that my soul had uttered what it thought, 

Oh that my lips had opened in kind praise, 

Into a desert heart I might have brought 
Courage and hope to crown his passing days. 
Under a film of doubt lay hidden wondrous might; 
I did not tell him, and at last he gave up the fight. 


0i...«nmMuiununmnmiuiuiininiimummmir«l 

Pa (jc 7 'h i rty-eigli t 





S' 


0 


A June Morning 

OLD cicled sun bursting forth in the east, 

Low call of birds, from night fears released, 

Notes from a chorus of insects that seem 
Like strains from some orchestra heard in a dream. 
Deep shadows cast on the bright new-born day 
By Night, who so recently flitted away. 

Pale pastel shades that show dim in the dawning, 

Green flecked with rainbow hues— 

That’s a June morning. 

Filmy mists rising out of the ground, 

Wonderful skies, that seem to abound 
In pearly white billows toss’d up from the sea 
To settle and rest in a blue bedded sky. 

Trembling petals aquiver with dew, 

Softly unfolding, their beauty to show, 

Pale pastel shades that show dim in the dawning, 

Green flecked with rainbow hues— 

That’s a June morning. 

Perfume of roses with jasamine blending 
Waxen white lillies, their sweetness extending 
Over the whole of a marvelous scene, 

Where nature abounds in a beauty serene. 

Breezes so soft that the tiniest flower 

Fears not their caresses, nor shrinks at their power. 

Pale pastel shades that show dim in the dawning, 

Green flecked with rainbow hues— 

That’s a June morning. 



. 

Page Thirty-nine 




0.iiimiii.mini...... . ...1.10 


The Old Fiddler 


(S|j|ND SO the old fiddler was buried today; 
lllll I watched the slow treading procession go by, 

I heard the deep tones of the requiem slow, 

As it sobbed out its melodies, tearful and low. 

I listened, and lo, as I heard it again 

An echo came back from the chords now and then, 

As in beautiful rythm the tones rose and fell 

’Till they whispered the airs that he once loved so well. 


I see him in fancy again at the dance, 

With glad song and laughter his joy to enhance, 
While gay lads and lassies as light as on wing 
Keep step to the sound of his old violin. 

In silence I listen, and hear once again 
An echo come back from a beautiful strain, 

As in wonderful rythm the tones rise and fall 
To the ‘ ‘ alamand left and the promenade all. 

The dance now has started, the caller begins; 
“Four ladies step out to the right o’ the ring,’’ 
The old fiddler’s music rings clear above all, 
“Now four to the center and back to the wall.” 
His age is forgotten, he’s once more a boy, 

His foot taps the floor as he fiddles with joy; 
And see how his old eyes light up to the call, 

To the “alamand left and the promenade all.” 


Ah yes, he is dead, they have buried him low, 

And silent and still are the fiddle and bow. 

The swing of the tunes that he played with delight 
Will soon be forgotten, their echoes take flight, 

And the gay lads and lassies who danced to his songs 
Will have met life’s dark trials, its mistakes and its wrongs, 
But anon in reflection, they ’ll fondly recall 
The “alamand left and the promenade all.” 


0--H. 

Page Forty 


|llllll■lllll■lllll•llllllllll.ilium...iiiimumi.....iiiiiiiiiiiiiiuiiimiiiiiigj 








The Old Postman 

E CAME every day, tho’ the weather was cold, 

Tho ’ the sun in the sky smote the earth like a flame, 
And tho ’ he was tired and weary and old, 

The smile that he gave us was always the same; 
With his merry old, cheery old “how do ye do,” 

With his “here is a card, or a letter for you.” 

He came every day, we could always depend 
On the faithful old postman, atremble with age. 

More welcome his advent than kinsman or friend; 

We waited and watched for the gentle old sage, 

With his merry old, cheery old “how do ye do,” 

With his “here is a card or a letter for you.” 

He came every day, but he comes not again 
With the little brown horse and the gray covered cart, 
And well watch and well wait for his coming, in vain, 
With a choke in the throat and a throb in the heart, 

And a sigh for his cheery old “how do ye do,” 

For his “here is a card, or a letter for you.” 

He came every day, and I wonder tonight 

If he watched for our smiles as we took them from him, 

And I wonder if we made his burdens more light, 

As his voice became weak and his eyes grew more dim; 
While we looked for that cheery old “how do ye do,” 

For that “here is a card or a letter for you.” 

He came every day, yet well see him no more, 

As he drove up the road at a slow, tired gait, 

But well see him at night in our dreams, I am sure, 

And we 11 hear his kind voice as we listen and wait 
For his merry old, cheery old “how do ye do,” 

For his “here is a card or a letter for you.” 



El 


.. 

Page Forty-one 




The Home-Town Band 


UHI HAVE heard the strains of music 
WM Of a thousand orchestras, 

I have listened to great artists of renoun, 

But they’ve bro’t me no such thrill— 

And they never never will— 

As the band that played in our home town. 

In the balmy summer evenings 
When the baseball nine had won, 

Or when county politicians were to speak, 

The old home town band would play 
With a noisy, rythmic sway, 

While the folks paraded up and down the street. 

Oh, the rapping and the tapping 
Of the little tenor drum! 

It delighted, it excited, it elated every one. 

We stood breathlessly around, 

Fairly breathing in the sound 

Of the drum, drum, drum-drum-drum. 

There was Archibald Macgregor, 

We were mighty proud of him; 

He was neat and trim and chipper, you may know. 
For a fiddle he was born, 

But he’d learned to play a horn, 

And ’twas wonderful the way that he could blow. 

Little Jim, the trombone player 
Was a master of the art, 

’Twas acknowledged that his music was correct. 

We would hang on every note, 

And the sweet strains would promote 
Tho’ts elysian to the dullest intellect. 


...........„„„„„..... 

Page Forty-tico 





Oh, the rapping and the tapping 
Of the little tenor drum! 

It delighted, it excited, it elated every one. 
AVe stood breathlessly around, 

Fairly breathing in the sound 

Of the drum, drum, drum-drum-drum. 


Oh, the leader was a marvel, 

He would swing the baton high 
As his body weaved in motion quick or slow; 
Instruments from every nation 
He could play with animation— 

And ’twas said that he had traveled with a show. 


There were others, I remember, 

Tom and Will and Dick and Joe; 

How the tinsel on their uniforms did shine! 

Oh, it sparkled in the sun 
Like pure gold—and every one 

Of the boys stood straight as soldiers formed in line. 


Oh, the rapping and the tapping 
Of the little tenor drum! 

It delighted, it excited, it elated every one. 
We stood breathlessly around, 

Fairly breathing in the sound 

Of the drum, drum, drum-drum-drum. 


Oh, the basses and the brasses 
And the little cornets, too, 

How in tones of rythmic harmony they rang, 

When they played the grand fina'le 
It was like a shot, a volley, 

And the old board sidewalks rattled with the clang. 


.....uni.nun..iiniiijg 

Pa fie Forty-three 


1111111111111 




S' 


........ 0 

Oh, the boys have ceased their playing, 

We will hear them never more; 

Time has taken all that happiness away, 

But it cannot take the dreams \ 

Of the bygone days it seems, 

Or the picture painted in our memory. 

Oh, the rapping and the tapping 
Of the little tenor drum! 

It delighted, it excited, it elated every one. 

We stood breathlessly around, 

Fairly breathing in the sound § 

Of the drum, drum, drum-drum-drum. | 


Oh Spring, Thou Fickle Jade 



IIE darkening clouds that spring’s bright glances fade, 
Hold out small promise for a dress parade; 

Milady’s new spring togs—Ah, what do they 
But mock the one who longs for bright array? 


j The new silk sweater, dainty dress and all 
{ Smile sweetly at her from the closet wall; 

5 And there’s the pumps, and roll-top stockings, too— 
i If summer never comes what shall she do ? 

= Each night she prays that morning light may bring 
{ A little warmth, oh, just a breath of spring, 

| That she may wear, if only for an hour, 

E The garb to mark her for a summer flower. 

§ But when, like Phoebus’ lark, she doth arise, 

= Behold a sunless world with weeping skies, 

| Sharp northern winds the wintry chills promote, 
i And hopelessly she dons her winter coat. 

0 ....... 

Page Forty-four 


0 




S' 


s 


Good Bye, Old Year 

|gj||LD YEAR, good bye. 

II* ’Twould be of no avail 
• ? Tho’ I should plead with thee to longer stay; 
Like other years, adown the ages trail 
You pass into oblivion and are free. 


Old year, good bye. 

The great old father, Time, 

Has cut the silver thread that bound you here, 
And now, as bells peal out with silvery chime, 
You step aside for this, the glad New Year. 

But stay, old year, 

The things I meant to do 

While yet you lingered here are still undone; 

The works I planned, the deeds of kindness, too, 
Are not yet finished; I have just begun. 

Ah, stay, old year, 

Nor bid me yet adieu, 

A soul I might have strengethened, but did not, 
A withered flower I might have taught to grow, 
The prayers I should have whispered I forgot. 

Old year, good bye. 

Yea, other years may come, 

And other works, and other joys I know, 

But those good deeds that I have left undone 
While you were here, with thee will have to go. 
Old year, good bye. 


E.nn„, 


.-0 

Page Forty-five 




B' 


The Meadow-Lark’s Song 

HEARD a meadow-lark’s silvery trill, 

I heard it but yesterday; 

The things that it told me a book would fill. 
How it warbled and sang to me! 

It told me that out by the broad highway 
The grasses were springing up, 

And I heard in the lilt of its roundelay 
A song of the butter cup. 

I caught the breath of the lilac sweet 
That grows for the honey-bee, 

I pictured the clover with bright dew wet, 

As the meadow-lark trilled away. 

I felt the warmth of a morning wind, 

As soft on my cheek ’twas blown, 

And the hurry and worry of all mankind 
Seemed things I had never known. 

Somehow, I felt that the world was new, 

Somehow my faith grew strong, 

And mine was the courage to dare and do— 

I had learned the lark’s glad song. 



a. 

Page Forty-six 



-'0 


01 . 


Admonition 


^LOOM on, oh lovely flowers, 

Send out your perfume rare, 

For summer days will soon be past and gone; 
Let elfin leaves look upward, 

And petals open where 

They may luxuriate in a dazzling sun. 


Grow on, oh wondrous elm trees, 

And spread your branches forth; 

A canopy to shade the passers by, 

Yea, lend your leafy foliage 
To beautify the earth, 

For summer days, ah, how they hurry by. 


Sing on, oh happy wild bird, 

And preen your pinions bright, 

And nest and mate in happiness sublime, 

Sing loudly in your rapture, 

For you must soon take flight; 

Must leave that nest and seek a warmer clime. 

Sing on, oh fair young mother, 

Sing well that lullaby, 

While still the baby nestles on your arm; 

For soon may come life’s winter, 

Its chill and misery, 

And in your grief you may forget the song. 


....... TaZ l Tort7-8ev^i 






0 - 


.............s 

My Call 

HjjtCH, IIOW may I know my call from God, 

What would he have me do? 

Oh, how may I tread the paths he trod, 

Living his words anew? 

To know of a duty left undone— 

That is my call from God, 

To learn of some poor disheartened one— 

That is my call from God. 

The cry of a soul in deep distress, 

A heart not understood, 

The sigh of one lost in waywardness— 

'That is my call from God. 

To know of a duty left undone, 

That is my call from God, 

To learn of some poor disheartened one— 

That is my call from God. 


Friendship 

RIENDSIHP, how good and how sacred the word; 
What of this old world without it ? 

Friendship, the soul with emotion is stirred 
As we ponder and wonder about it. 

Friendship! What magic the thought doth imply; 
Chains of affection, gold welded 

And jeweled with pearls found in love’s perfect sky, 
With the gems of sweet charity gilded. 

Friendship, how good and how sacred the word; 

What of this old world without it? 

Friendship, the soul with emotion is stirred 
As we ponder and wonder about it. 



0 ... 

Page Forty-eight 


•0 





|7|iiimii 


0 


The Letter From My Friend 


WING'ED messenger most kind, 

That letter from my friend I find; 

A glint of sunshine’s brightest rays, 
It lends a color to the days 
That bring a message from the pen 
Of one whose soul and mine are kin. 



A little germ of gladness thrown 
Into my life, has thrived and grown 
Until its branches far o’er shade 
The path that I was wont to tread, 
And in my heart has fastened deep 
It’s tendrils, there a hold to keep. 

The sheen, the glitter and the show 
Of riches’ baubles here below, 

Merge into dull and dark abyss 
Compared with blessings such as this; 
And when the portals, wide unfurled, 
Admit me to that heavenly world, 

A loneliness do I portend 
Without that letter from my friend. 


QlllllllimilllllllllllllllUIIIIIIIIIIIIHIHHIIIIHU.I.Mlllllllllllllll.IIIHHIIIHI.“•“““•"““““““"“U] 

Page Forty-nine 





□< 




I Can Forgive 



CAN forgive, because in my forgiving 
I am brought closer to the mind divine, 

I am made strong, with love’s sweet spirit striving, 
I am made humble with a peace sublime. 

I can forgive. 


I can forgive, for in my sweet forgiving 
Souls long in darkness catch a hope’s bright ray, 
And find a joy, a blessedness in living, 

Knowing that love has opened up the w r ay. 

I can forgive. 


I can forget, for in my kind forgetting 
All that I one time felt as thrusts so cold 
Seem as a mist, a dream of woe’s begetting 
Wafted to me through memory’s halls so old. 

I can forget. 


Oh, the forgetting and the sweet forgiving, 

How through my soul the sunshine it can send, 
Mjaking my heart-throbs bound with joy of living, 
Giving me strength to keep the upper trend. 

I can forgive. 


. 

Page Fifty 




0 ,m,! 


'E 


The World 


r+* HE WORLD knows but little of failures, 
And certainly cares a lot less, 

Poor efforts to win so seldom are seen: 
The world watches only success. 


The world knows but little of failures, 

Tho’ efforts be crowned with distress, 

The world likes to sup from the victor’s cup; 
The world watches only success. 


So keep to yourself your excuses. 

Nor tell all your woes to the throng; 
Tho’ few seem to hear a tale of despair, 
The whole world will list’ to a song. 


My Song 

F I ( AN make you laugh a little longer 
JJ1 Than you are wont to laugh, my tired friend, 

If I can make your courage any stronger, 

For some stray shaft that I may chance to send; 

If I can make a smile where once Avas sadness, 

Or bring the sunshine where a cloud has hung; 

More glorious than yours Avill be my gladness, 

For I’ll know that in vain T have not sung. 

If I can make you pause awhile and listen 
To some poor message that I bring to you— 

Altho’ my words may cause your eyes to glisten. 

And for a time bring heartaches, friend, to you— 

If Avhat I say can ’wake a hope supernal, 

Or fan to life a flame of hope long dead, 

The song I sing will be a song eternal, 

And for the effort I’ll be doubly paid. 

Pfif/r FiftiJ-onc 


■ ninnmnimimi. him ...linn...... • 1111 ■ i ■ 11 ■ ■ 11 > 11 ■ ...mi.in........... . .iimnnni 


11111111111111111 111 M 111III I I 11111111| 1111111111 | 11111 | | | | ,, | ( u 1111 ! (| (| ( 1 1 ( ( 1 1 | ( | ( , ( t< j, j 


INDEX 


Page 

A Song of Nebraska.. 2ii 

Autumn .. 32 

A Business Creed. 33 

An August Afternoon. 35 

A June Morning. 39 

Admonition . 47 

Because of Her. 21 

Christmas . 29 

Friendship ... 4 ^ 

Gifts .. 3 7 

Good Bye. Old Year. 45 

Her Picture . 17 

It’s Springtime In Nebraska. u 

It Was You . 11 

If You Should Come. . 1 r; 

It Is God. . 

I Did Not Tell Him.Z..ZZ7!. 3 ^ 

I Can Forgive.’ ’ . Z 

Little Old Lady in a Railway Station. S 

Mother Patching . - 

Mother. I’ve Missed You. A 

Mother . Z 

Ma Fed ’Im.Z7ZZZ77Z77!7. 14 

Marbles . , 

My can.;.;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;. 5 s 

My Song .ZZZZ7ZZ 7'7Z’7 r.i 

New Year Resolutions. 00 

Night On The Prairie.“;.Z . 7,'l 

November Stars . - . o . 

Oh, Little Mother. j. 

On Christmas Eve. Z 

On the Death of a Young Giri.Z7 7777ZZ7. Z 

O Spring, Thou Fickle Jade.ZZ777'". 44 

Perhaps, Oh IGowers. „ 18 

She Was My Mother. - 

The Mother and the Rose. in 

The Picture . -<2 

The Empty House.ZZZZZ.7.77. ir 

To An Easter Lily. Z 

The Old Fiddler.ZZZ7Z7 7 . an 

The Old Postman. 41 

The Home Town Band. 4 ., 

The Meadow Lark’s Song.777777. 4 « 

The Letter From Mv Friend. 7 

The World .......ZZZ^I^^ZZZZ 51 

\\ hen Garden Flowers Bloom. 4 f*, 

Your Lullabies ... ^ gn 1 


..................... . .g 


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*T.&‘ 


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MILBUHN & SCOTT CO . 
Printers and Binders 
Beatrice, Nebr. 













